


A Hunger So Honed

by vintage_granddad



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, I don't know how to tag this, M/M, it's a big mess just give it a shot though, it's kind of sad but i promise it has a good ending, there's some background Steve/Peggy for good measure
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-07-25 11:29:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7530994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vintage_granddad/pseuds/vintage_granddad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s making plans with Peggy and he knows it doesn’t matter. Even if he survives, it doesn’t matter. Because when he closes his eyes, it’s not her face he sees. It’s Bucky’s, illuminated by the moonlight as he looked up at Steve all those years ago, whispering, <i>we could be happy, we could be happy, we could be happy</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Opening

_New York City, 1933_

In the early nineteen-thirties, Steve Rogers saw something that would haunt him for the rest of his life. 

There was a painting he that he would see once, just once, in a gallery in New York City. Bucky had dragged him along, saying that it would be good for him to get out for once. He said that it would be good for Steve to see what his contemporaries were doing. Bucky was always so _into_ it, the whole of it. The paintings and the frames and the title cards. The supplies and the works in progress and the galleries. 

He hung all of Steve’s sketches on his bedroom wall with little thumbtacks and bits of gum. Even the ones that Steve himself had tried to throw out by crinkling into little balls and tossing at the trash after exhausting every inch of the paper would make it to Bucky’s bedroom wall. Steve would be sprawled awake at night on the floor of the bedroom next to Bucky (because Hell if Buck would take the bed while Steve was on the floor, _that just isn’t fair now is it, Rogers?_ ) and stare up at all the smudged drawings Steve would have never shown to anyone else but Bucky. And Bucky loved them all. He loved them all. 

Steve couldn’t see the painting in color, that was his great downfall, he thought. He used to try to imagine it; what it would be like to have seen it as it was meant to be seen. Sure, he knows the words to describe them. He knows words like _hue_ and _value_ and the names of colors. But he doesn’t know what they actually look like. Couldn’t even fathom it. 

Bucky tried to show him once. _Yellow is like this_ , at the top of a hill on a roller coaster before the drop, _green is like this_ , he laughed when Steve threw up after. _Red feels like this_ , he said, holding Steve’s hand close to an open flame on the stove. But all Steve could think about was Bucky’s strong fingers around Steve’s wrist, how it burned where he touched him. 

It was the ambiguity that haunted him. The girl’s face. She was young, looking down with a distracted gaze. She’s still got one glove on. Steve stood there, staring at _Automat_ for a long time after Bucky had moved on to other works. The street outside is still and dark, so she’s there in the middle of the night all alone. 

In some strange way, Steve understands her. Identifies with her, in the unknowably late hours of the night. 

Of course it wouldn’t be until 1942 that the artist would make his most famous work, the same year as Rogers himself would gain relevance to the American public. With a similar subject matter of people in a restaurant at night, _Nighthawks_ would become one of the most famous and most recognizable American paintings. Steve didn’t know it then, of course, how everything would change. How he would become America’s most recognizable face for decades to come. But he would be the same as before, underneath at least. The same sort of painting, after all. 

In this moment, in 1933, Steve Rogers, the man who would one day become Captain America, is still small and sickly. He’s still looking at the early works of one of America’s greatest painters. He’s still got Bucky by his side and a hope for the future. At this moment, right now, Steve Rogers has it all. 

Almost. 

Steve Rogers almost has it all. 

It’s still clear in his head as though it was yesterday. Thinking about it still gives him a rush. Bucky is standing a few feet away, too far to reach out and touch, even if he was allowed to do that. A safe distance away. As close as he can be in public. He’s looking at a painting with this look on his face: amazement. Steve watches as his sharp eyes trace the painting, a knowing smile spreading over Bucky’s face. His hands are stuffed into his heaviest old jacket, and his hair is still a little wet from the snow that had melted in it. And the whole thing just sets Steve’s heart on edge. 

A few months earlier, Steve found four whole dollars on the ground. That was the start of it. He knew, logically, that he should give all of it to his mother. They could use it for food or for his medications, but at the same time, he had never had so much money to himself before. He gave her one, but kept the other dollars a secret, stashing them under his mattress. He knew, instantly, what he wanted to do with it. 

Which is how he and Bucky had found themselves skipping class during the second week of school and going to the movie theater. There was no one else there and they sat in the far back, talking loudly and laughing at the funny parts. Bucky put his feet up on the seat in front of him, leaning back in his seat with his arms stretched out on either side. They sat through two showings because they could. They were on top of the world. 

Halfway through the second showing, Steve became acutely aware that Bucky wasn’t watching the film anymore - he was watching _Steve_. Steve turned and studied his face, open mouthed, half-lit by the movie screen. They were completely alone. And Bucky’s sly smile and joking voice had echoed in Steve’s head, _are you courting me, Rogers?_ He had said it as a joke when Steve paid for his ticket, but maybe he was. Maybe that was what he _wanted_. 

Steve isn’t brave enough in 1933 to do anything by it. Maybe he never will be. He knows the consequences. And he keeps his tongue, all the words he wants to say, holds it all to himself. Bucky is his best friend and that’s all he can ever be. So he stands in front of _Automat_ and stares at the girl’s face as Bucky drifts deeper and deeper into the gallery. Further, ever further, away from him. 

  


_New York City, 1934_

The heat isn’t all that bad. No, it’s the humidity that really fucks you over, with sweaty brows and sweaty palms and you can never wipe it away. With shirtsleeves clinging to the undersides of your arms and hair to the back of your neck. It’s inescapable, it’s enveloping. It’s the kind of heat that when it finally breaks, you feel cleansed of all your sins. 

And fuck, if Steve didn’t have a laundry list of sins. He’d like to think he was good, he really would. But he would much rather like to think about kissing Bucky. He knows he could. God, it would be so easy. All it would take is to bend his elbows just a bit, lean down a little farther. Bucky is so close, spread out below Steve on the rooftop where they've settled to watch the stars. He’s staring up at the sky, the constellations, but Steve, Steve is looking down at his damn pouty lips, at the slope of his nose, the curve of his cheek. 

He wants so desperately to press his finger into the little dimple in Bucky’s chin. Just slot his thin thumb right there. He feels compelled to do it, to touch him, delicately, with reverence. He wants to examine him, to explore, to worship. But stronger than his need for Bucky is his need to keep Bucky safe. So he balls his fists up, balls his heart in his fist and pretends it’s nothing. Not a single damn thing at all. 

It’s not that they can’t. They could, but they shouldn’t. Steve knows that Bucky feels the same way, he had made that much clear. But looking down at Bucky, Steve can see his whole life stretched out beneath him. He sees all he needs to see, all he’ll ever see. He can’t even remember a time in his life without Bucky; he’s wrapped himself up in every memory. He doesn’t even know who he would be without Bucky by his side. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Bucky starts, suddenly, staring up at the open sky, up at the stars. 

“Oh yeah? That’s a first,” Steve teases, but he’s smiling down at him, head propped up on his tiny fist. 

“ _I’ve been thinking_ ,” Bucky says again, a little louder this time to keep Steve from interrupting, “that we could be happy together.” Bucky finishes quietly, like it’s a secret. It is, in a way. 

“Buck, we’ve been over this.” Steve says, but his voice sounds tired, sad. 

“No, hear me out. Maybe not _here_ , not _now_ , not in the future or even in this lifetime. But maybe there are other versions, you see? Maybe we’re out there staring up at a different sky. It’s still _us_ , but it isn’t this us.” Bucky turns his head slightly to look at Steve. “Maybe we could be happy then.” 

Steve smiles, sad and sweet, and settles back down to look up at the sky. “Yeah,” he agrees in a whisper, “maybe we could.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In another world, you are a prince, and I am a murderer._

The woods grow thicker and darker, more sinister, the further from the path you get. He knows the way nonetheless. Deep, deep in the forest, where only the foolish and the fearless dare to tread, there is a cabin. It’s four days of hiking, as the crow flies, from the path closest to the clearing. He can make it in three. Two, if he’s feeling ambitious. He has a job to do.

There’s a faint path there, from the north. It is still a dangerous way full of the liars and the thieves. Bucky’s people. The deserters and the banished all. Nonetheless, he approaches from the south. He’s got his two knives sharpened the night before. He’s got half his pay, the rest to be collected when he delivers. He has a reputation: quick and silent. Those who haven’t dealt with him directly often don’t believe he’s real. He operates with no morals, no questions. He has never failed. 

The man in the cabin was banished from his city state nearly twenty years ago. The woman whose life he had ruined finally had saved up enough money to pay Bucky to enact retribution. 

They were friends, Bucky and the target. Once. Not _friends_ in the conventional sense of the word, but as close to being friends as people like them could ever hope to be. As close to being friends as Bucky had ever been. Bucky didn’t think about that when he stabbed the man in the chest. He just pulled out his knife and slit his throat. Maybe it was overkill, or maybe it was being cautious, reliable, certain. Maybe he just liked the feeling of his blade slicing through the thin skin. 

He stood in the doorway, looking down at the corpse, and wiped his knife off on his pant leg. As far as missions go, this one was incredibly easy. The man had opened the door, smiled, welcoming Bucky into his home. The trek out there had been the hardest part and even that barely hitched his breath. 

His next target would not be so simple. 

Bucky doesn’t believe in evil. Not anymore. His heart is of carved stone and his fists are just as hard, maybe harder. It’s been a long, long time since there has been any softness in his life. He’s tired, maybe. A little. 

Bucky has killed kings before. The first one was to start a war and the second one was to end it. He has been paid by mothers to kill their children and husbands to kill their wives. He has ended neighbors and friends. But to him, they are strangers all. He never really cared for the details of any of it. 

He is wanted in seven nations (probably more, unofficially), but he is a master of hiding. Those who needed his services could always find him, though. He kept to himself, in the lowly dark corners of the major ports. He frequented the dirtiest taverns, stole most of his food and hoarded most of his money. He had a cabin, ramshackle as it was, in the woods that marked the border of two nations he was banned from. It was bad, but it was his; though he could never stay there for too long at a time. Nothing ever to raise suspicions. 

The man who had approached him with this particular job would like to think himself clever. Maybe he was, Bucky supposed. He had, after all, found him. The trail of thugs and ruffians that he had to have gone through just to find himself at the door of this particular brothel must have left a bitter taste in his sub-royal mouth. He’d like to think himself a king. Bucky could make that happen. For a price. 

A large price, of course. The royal family had a notoriously well-kept, well-trained guard, and with the prince being the last remaining in the direct bloodline, it would be expected that his protection would be particularly strong. Bucky never cared much for politics, as he never stayed within any particular border for a long period of time. He belonged nowhere, to no one. A self made man. 

This case was an interesting one. He had killed for power shifts before but never of this magnitude. 

Staravia was a small, unassuming nation. Though it possessed great wealth, it was spread among the citizens fairly equally, with no one person in abject poverty and no other person with immeasurable wealth. Even the royal family lived modestly, supposedly. The prince, a young, illness prone man named Steve, had been orphaned at the age of sixteen, and by law of the land, will not inherit the throne until he reached the age of twenty four. That milestone was rapidly approaching, with the young prince turning twenty-two this past moon. 

Bucky had sat the client down at the seediest pub he could think of to discuss the negotiations. The table was sticky and the legs of the stools were uneven and Bucky would like to believe that it would make his client uncomfortable. A test, of sorts. He watched as his client side-eyed the other patrons. He thought himself above it all, didn’t he, and yet he was here. Here with these strange folk - Bucky’s folk. Bucky leans forward on the table, dropping his voice to a whisper, a threat. 

“Buy them a round,” Bucky says, testing the waters. The man would know better than to make his wealth known, as it would draw attention to himself; but he would also want to meet any demand Bucky should have. Seeking him out in the first place put him at risk. The very act of talking with him would be considered an act of treason and Bucky knows that he has the upper hand. He wants to keep it that way. 

As much as he would like to disregard the politics of the outside world, Bucky does not have his head buried entirely in the dirt. He knows that the time is right. Should it happen, it would have to be quick. He has heard, whispers from strangers on strange roads, about the forthcoming visit from a princess of a neighboring land. With her arrival, the guard would likely be split to accommodate her, as her own guards would not likely be welcomed within the confines of the castle with their own weaponry. The prince’s guard would be down by at worst a fourth and at best, near half. Bucky could handle that. He allows his client to tell him as much anyways, because the man clearly likes to hear himself talk, and Bucky himself is rather reticent during negotiations. It makes them uncomfortable. It makes them compliant. 

That’s all he needs. Compliance. 

Getting into the castle isn’t near as difficult as he would have expected. A change of clothes and one member of the princess’s guard picked off while relieving himself in the woods along the way. The armor would cover his face and that would at least bring him to the gates. He was unsurprised to find that it would bring him further. 

The nation of Staravia was known for keeping to itself, so the initial talk was that the princess’s guards would be left at the state borders, but they were allowed through the gates, they were allowed all the way to the castle doors and then within the building, where the lot of them, disarmed and wrapped in leathers, were introduced to the prince. It was a courtesy, Bucky knew. But more-so, it was a part of the plan. 

The client, the prince’s own cousin, would talk Steve into allowing for the princess’s guard to meet him. That would grant Bucky access to the castle. During the meeting, Bucky would slip away, unnoticed and untraced, before the princess’s own guard was to be sent away. 

The auxiliary stairs were tall and winding, but Bucky took them two, sometimes three at a time, until he reached the topmost floor. He had not passed another living soul the entire way up. _Good_ , he thought to himself. The plan was for him to hide out for several hours once secured in the castle. Long enough for the prince to have gone about the remainder of his daily business. He was apt to retire with the setting of the sun. Bucky found a room with a window. 

He knew this room. Not that he knew _this_ room, but he had been in rooms like it before. They were hideaways. Rooms at the highest peaks of the castles made for the royal family in case the castle was ever to be stormed. It was covered in a thick layer of dust from disuse. There were several small windows on every wall to allow enough light and air through. The rug was elegant, but not flashy, not at all like the decor in other royal buildings that Bucky had been in. There was yellow paged books on a small table and a pail and a bed. It was smaller than most. He supposed they didn’t have much need for it. 

He knew that he shouldn’t nap, and he wasn’t particularly tired. He knew he could function on the sleep that he had had the night before, but there was not much else to do. The bed was comfortable. He could hardly remember a comfortable bed. Despite even his accumulating wealth, he had surprisingly little comfort in his life. 

He awoke with the moon full and heavy, lying low in the sky. It was disorienting, waking up in this room with the moonlight streaming through, with his shoes still on and the bed unmade. Some nagging bit below his ribcage wanted to remake it. To pull the linens up, to tuck them under the bed. To put it back together again. As though he had never been there, never tainted this place with his own foul breath. As though it would matter. As though it would be of any sort of concern after this night. He could fix it. He knew how. It was simple. But instead, Bucky finds himself tightening his bootstraps and closing the door silently behind him. He puts the room, the rug, the unmade bed out of his thoughts because that’s how he functions. 

It’s just him and his target now. Anything that gets in the way is just a casualty. Just practice for what is to come. 

Bucky is informed at least. He knows what he’s up against. The guards will be the challenge. The target will be quick. Easy. Prince Steve is not known for his strength, not known for anything other than compassion and a long history of illness. It would have been so much simpler if he had died in childhood, but this pay, this haul, would be enough for Bucky to finally buy his way across the ocean, where he wouldn’t have to live a life of looking over his shoulder. He could start over. He’d never have to be afraid another day in his life. 

There’s no guards in the hall. He makes it to the room unnoticed, slipping inside and clinging to the shadows in complete silence. The room is a falsehood, he knows. It is a bedroom that serves an entry. The prince’s room would lie just beyond this room. _No one knows that, not even the guards_ , his client had said, _but beyond the tapestry, there is a door, and there lies his quarters_. It’s to throw men like Bucky off. 

He expects the door to be locked, at the very least. But he pushes the fabric away with the tip of his sword to find that the door is wide open. The room is filled with candles, all lit, banishing the shadows to only the most remote corners, the dirty, musty places where the spiderwebs will grow and the sunlight will never touch. 

If Bucky had expected to find Steve awake, he did not expect to find him _waiting_. 

His thin shoulders are wrapped in clean yet threadbare linens and he is sitting upright, cross-legged, in the bed. He is alert. He is ready. 

Bucky could kill him now, could throw the sword the small distance from the entry to the bed. Could place the sword in him, right under his chin. Bucky could rush up, could decapitate him. Could get him in the heart. He could have so easily crushed the air out of him with one hand around the neck and instead he just stands there. 

_Never let a target talk, Barnes._

“I saw you slip away this morning,” the prince says, and his voice has none of that regal authority that it had had earlier. It is small. “I figured you would stop by sooner or later.” 

Bucky doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. He swallows, readjusts his grip on the sword, but doesn’t make any sort of move. 

“Did you want some tea?” the target says, leaning to the side of the bed where a small table is located. “I’ve got some fruit too,” he grabs the tray that was on top of the table. “I suppose you would take what you want regardless of whether or not it was offered to you.” He laughs, quiet and rueful. 

Bucky is reminded, instantly, of a dog he had had when he was eight years old. A good dog, a loyal dog, but still a dog, still an animal at the end of the day. The dog had bit a neighbor child and Bucky’s old man told him to kill the dog - it would make things easier. They didn’t have a lot of money, and they didn’t want to have to pay any sort of fine. _Best not make anything of it, son_ , his father had said. Bucky had put a rope around the dog’s neck, had brought it out to the woods with a knife stashed in his pocket. 

The walk was strange. Uncomfortable. Not just because Bucky was leading his best friend, his only friend, to his death. The dog had seen Bucky put the knife in the pocket, he had to know. But he went along with it. He let Bucky put the rope around his neck, and he followed without resistance, as Bucky led him to the clearing where they slaughtered cattle as sacrifice. The dog was not a sacrifice. The dog was his friend. _He only did it because the kid was sticking his hand in his face, I’d’ve bit him too!_ Bucky had said. But he knew better than to disobey. 

But he was never strong enough to do it. He sat out there in the clearing, staring at the dog, toying with the knife in his pocket for hours. The dog had done nothing wrong. He was good. So he tied him to a tree and left him there. The next night, he went back - to finish the job or to free the dog, he was never sure - but it was gone. Sometimes, out of the corner of his eyes, he would see a flash of fur. And maybe it was just wishful thinking, but he liked to believe that it was still out there somewhere. 

“You are not the first to make an attempt on my life,” Steve continues. “How did you get past my guards?” 

His voice falters. “There were none.” 

But even as the words escape his mouth, he knows he was wrong. Two sets of strong hands grab him by the shoulders, forcing him to the ground. But as he falls to his knees, he is ready to fight. He elbows blindly behind him, hitting one of the guards hard in the knee. The grip on his left shoulder loosens minutely and he twists free on that side, pivoting to allow for a more equal playing field with the second guard. But the guard is no match for him. Strong hands on his shoulders isn’t enough to stop the notorious Bucky Barnes. He puts his sword through the underside of the guard’s chin, sticks it right up into his skull. The first guard, now recovered from whatever shock Bucky had put him through, is now drawing his weapon, but Bucky is faster, pulling a knife from the second guard’s holster and putting it in the gut of the first guard. Bucky regains his footing, turns back to Steve. 

“There were two,” he amends. 

If Steve is afraid, it doesn’t show. He moves to the far side of the bed, making room for Bucky to sit. There’s two cups of tea, bread and fruit laid out. Bucky pulls his sword out of the man’s head and wipes it on his shirt, then steps over the bodies towards Steve. 

“You know I have to kill you, right?” 

“I had figured as much.” 

Bucky wants to ask him why he is so accepting of it, why he isn’t scared. He sits on the bed and accepts a cup of tea. He is still alert. He is still ready to fight. Steve drinks the entirety of his own tea in one swallow and places his cup down on the bedside table. 

“How was your journey here?” He asks. He’s very polite. Before Bucky can answer, he adds, “what’s it like beyond the walls?” 

It occurs to Bucky at that instant, hazy as the revelation is, that Steve has never gone far from the castle. His sickly nature has tethered him here. He’s never had much of a life. 

Steve is still talking, but Bucky can’t really hear him. He’s watching his lips, wet and pink, moving. Bucky’s own mouth feels drier than the desert he crossed once when he was a child. He takes another sip of the tea, but his limbs feel heavy and lagged. 

“Are you feeling okay?” Steve asks, and Bucky knows he’s talking really loud, but it sounds muffled nonetheless. He feels Steve’s warm hand on his cheek before he sees him moving, gently holding his head up. Then he sees Steve smiling, and looking at something behind Bucky. Someone behind Bucky. He says something, but Bucky can’t hear. His vision is growing dark, but the last thing he sees before he finally slips away is that grin. 

He’s scared in those final moments. He knows what’s coming. But somehow, he can’t in his disoriented state, find it in himself to be angry. 

It’s been a long time coming.


	3. Chapter 3

The new summer home Steve’s parents bought the summer he turned sixteen. It was in a town two hours east of the old one - it was richer, and had thicker woods surrounding it. Their new house was right on the beach. It was nearly _twice_ the size of the old summer home, not that their small family had any need for it. Steve would tell his mother that nine bedrooms was simply put, _excessive_. To which she would reply, with a hand on his shoulder, that they could convert one of them into a studio for him. (Steve would not tell her, but he believed that six _unused_ bedrooms was still excessive.) There was a market within walking distance, and a short bike ride could bring you to the dance hall, the theater, the shops, the diners, and the center of town. By all accounts, it should have meant that it would be a better summer than previous years, yet Steve wanted no part of it. 

He didn’t want to lose correspondence with his old summer friends, small as the group was. He wasn’t a particularly outgoing kind of guy. He was more likely to end up in a fight than he was to make friends, though it wasn’t for want of trying. His dad would call it _shit luck_ , and his mom would tell him it was because he was better than the other children. Steve thought of himself as no different from them. Everyone is just standing up for what they believe in, after all. 

There were only three people that really ended up mattering that summer. 

They moved in in May, before the summer traffic started up. If Steve’s new house was big, then Stark’s house was a _castle_. The next door neighbors had a son around Steve’s age. He was maybe two years older, a little taller, with dark hair and the beginnings of what could be fine mustache, if he takes after his father. Howard Stark was smart as hell, but pushy and selfish maybe. He took to Steve instantly, inviting him into town to see a film with his best friend in this _godforsaken town_. 

Peggy Carter, the aforementioned _best friend_ , lived in England during the school year, but her family had a house a few blocks from the beach. She spent most of her time in Howard’s mansion, right on the water, dancing barefoot on his coffee table with other girls in the neighborhood. She was beautiful and fiery and Steve probably could have fallen in love with her if things had been different. 

The first time Steve ever hung out with her was his third day there (as he had turned down Howard’s offer to see a movie with the two of them the night prior). She was standing in front of the coffee shop they were supposed to meet at, and a man made a lewd comment towards her while passing by. She decked him with no hesitation, and then calmly pushed her hair back behind her ears. By the time Howard and Steve reached her, it was as if it had never happened, and she didn’t say anything about it. 

There was a boy, _the Barnes boy_ , as most kids would call him, that worked in the market on the way into town. _You don’t want to fall in with his type, Stevie_ , Howard had said, handing him a cigarette, _real North-End kinda fella, that one_. Steve didn’t understand, at first, what that meant. He didn’t live in the town. He lived just outside of it, and that isn’t even technically the truth. He _vacationed_ there. Like Howard, like Peggy, though the two of them had been coming here for their entire lives and knew a thing or two about this place. Every town has its bad spots, if you knew where to look. Jewetville’s bad spot is the entirety of the north end: where the folks who keep the other people’s lives running smoothly live. The poor, the disenfranchised. The maids, the cooks, the bartenders, the store clerks. The people who have one home, hardly, and struggle and suffer and starve when the rich men and women go back to their regular programmed lives of luxury. 

There were rumors about the Barnes boy: treacherous, lecherous rumors. But Steve was sure that that was all they were: rumors. Some kids said that if you gave him five bucks, he’d blow you in the back of the store by the dumpster. Others said that he’d give you five bucks if you’d let him blow you. (Peggy would point out that there was no way he could afford five dollars to give anyone a blow job. Howard would say that that was how he had gotten his nickname, _Bucky_ , though no one could know for sure) Regardless, there were many stories floating around about him and they all ended with the guy on his knees in dark alleyways and behind dumpsters. 

To Steve, it was all just a bunch of he-said-she-said and he had never cared much for rumors. He didn’t care much to know if boys with pretty mouths were using them on the forty-something year old widows who came in with their swishy knee length skirts and button up shirts partially unbuttoned. He definitely didn’t want to hear about women buying smokes with wads of cash slid discreetly across the counter with their plastics in their leather purses and their husbands drinking beers on the front porch a mile away. Steve didn’t want to hear about it, but every time Steve went to pick up a couple sodas for him and Peggy, Howard would raise his eyebrows. And Howard would talk. 

“You know, Steve,” he said, pouring vodka down the hole, it clinging to the inner necks of the glass bottles, “I saw him head to the back with Leona Thompson’s mom last Thursday.” Steve rolled his eyes and took the bottles to the couch where Peggy was sprawled in a pretty yellow sundress. “Her _mother_ for Christsakes!” 

“Now Howard, we all know you’re just bothered that you hadn’t beat him to her,” Steve teased him, plopping down on the couch. 

“I got the younger version. Last week.” Howard said, turning on the radio. He pressed his lips tightly together for a moment, thinking. “Perkier.” 

“I didn’t want to know.” Steve replied, plainly and honestly. 

There were other kids that worked at that shop, all north end kids, all with dirty hair and graying socks. The lot of them, filthy. No one else would pull the same sort of shit, though. And if he was taking money for it, he kept all the cash and the old woman who ran the store didn’t have even the slightest clue what was going on. But the rumors surrounding the Barnes boy were nasty. He was said to take anyone who wanted him, regardless of equipment or experience. He would even make house calls while on delivery duty. 

They were rumors of course, Steve told himself, while he walked home from the market, trying to ignore the kid’s mischievous smile. How his fingers lingered on Steve’s own when handing him his change. Howard is still talking about Leona Thompson and Peggy is reprimanding him about how he talks about girls and it’s all drowned out. It’s like a big gust of wind rushing by Steve’s head. _Barnes._

Steve doesn’t get it. He’s never been so focused on someone before. But he feels like a moth to a flame, like he is a spider in the sink, being rinsed down the drain. He feels like a bug- with cosmic insignificance. He feels unworthy somehow, of the Barnes boy’s time. 

There were three people that were important to Steve that summer - and for the rest of his life, honestly. It was Peggy, it was Howard, and it was the Barnes boy. He never would have even talked to the Barnes boy aside for the short clips when buying snacks at the corner store. He never would have been brave enough to have any sort of follow through, as he always kept his bisexual proclivities suppressed. Call it fate, call it coincidence, but a chain of events was set in motion that would irrevocably change everything about what Steve believed about his life. And he didn’t even mind. 

Some things happen that you can’t undo. They don’t mean anything, but they’re catalysts. Some things start chains that you just can’t stop, and maybe if Steve had been healthier, him and Peggy Carter would have been holding hands by the end of the summer, maybe even married later on down the line. Maybe if he had accepted Howard’s invitation to a house party rather than staying home to read and mope about not being in his last summer home with his old friends, he would have been safer. Maybe if his mom hadn’t called for a delivery from the market on the corner of Washburn and Keith Street, things would have been different. 

But even if Steve had had the power to go back, to undo and redo it all, he wouldn’t. Even if he had had a shot with Peggy Carter, at a safe life and a wholesome summer romance. Even if he had. Knowing what he knows now, he’s not sure that he ever could. 

Steve remembers things, in this hazy sort of clarity; it fades because the whole day is faded, but there are details he will remember for the rest of his life. Like the way the glass shattered when it hit the floor, five feet away from his face. The way the watery brown liquid - whiskey - splattered over the hardwood floor and the edge of the red carpet. But he doesn’t remember what was being said as the delivery boy entered the room. He remembers the paragraph in the book he was reading, the last word he read before he set it aside and stood up from the couch to answer the door. He pictures the word as though it’s a painting and not a word in a book. _Against._ He stood up. He took three steps. His knees hit the carpet, then his elbow and his shoulder and his head came crashing down. He remembers the doorbell ringing just moments before, a voice calling out, his strangled attempt to answer, his dog’s feet retreating from the room, running towards the front door. A blurred voice. He remembers strong hands, hauling him to an upright position. He remembers shouting. And then he remembers nothing else. 

Steve’s mom will tell him later that the Barnes boy brought him to the hospital: and that that had saved his life. She also tells him that the boy will be staying on with them for the rest of the summer in one of the many bedrooms of the house. Five unused bedrooms is still too many, Steve would think to himself, before realizing the implications of moving the Barnes boy into the bedroom adjacent to his. 

“It’s not that you need to be babysat, honey,” his mom said, stroking his cheek with her index finger, then her middle finger, then her index again. Soft and slow and gentle. “It’s just that your father and I won’t be home a lot of the time, and I would feel much better knowing you weren’t alone.” 

Later that day, Howard Stark would visit the hospital, with Peggy in tow, and joke that the Rogers household was on its way to becoming a brothel. Peggy would elbow him in the ribs. 

Maybe this wasn’t gonna be such a bad deal after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so sorry it took me so long to update. i have been _insanely_ busy, though i will try from here on out to update at least once a week or once every other week. as always, thank you for reading and i hope you enjoyed it!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys i know i said that i was going to try to be posting once a week, but i'm in the getting ready to move across the country so i've been incredibly busy. i will be trying to post as much as possible and hopefully finish this by the end of october, but i guess we'll see. thank you for sticking with this!

_Somewhere over the Atlantic, 1944  
_

Steve Rogers can still remember the moment he knew he would fall in love with Peggy Carter. It was the first second he saw her. And it felt all at once like every love story he had ever heard about and at the same time, nothing like love at all. Steve Rogers saw Peggy Carter, and for the first time in his life, he felt truly lost. It felt like he didn’t know which way north was anymore. 

Maybe he didn’t. 

Steve Rogers had only ever loved one person in his whole life, and had fully expected that that was how it was. He loved Bucky, _loved_ him. He loved the way he curled his toes when he stretched out in bed in the golden morning light. He loved the way he would sometimes leave his clothes on the floor - spread out, so they wouldn’t get wrinkled, but still probably get stepped on anyways. He loved the way Bucky looked at art - brow furrowed, arms crossed; the way he listened to music - with his eyes closed, mouth open; the way he danced - like no one in the world could even see him. Steve saw him. Steve always saw him, and his heart was swelling and his head was spinning even sober, he was warm and tingly when he looked at Bucky, always. 

But Steve Rogers would never get to love Bucky the way he loved Peggy. He would never get to kiss him, never to hold him with intention. He knew that. Before he even met Peggy, he knew that. Steve knew in his heart of hearts that he loved Peggy. That she could make him happy in a way that Bucky could never hope to dream of being allowed to. But he also knew that he would never love her in the way that he loved Bucky. And maybe that yearning, that insatiable, impossible need for Bucky was at the heart of it: we want what we can’t have. 

Peggy was a blaze they set to keep warm at camp, so much more than any other dame had ever been. But Bucky, oh god Bucky was a whole god damn forest fire. 

The closest he would ever come to it was that midmorning in autumn, in the movie theater, with Bucky’s face illuminated by the black and white pictures flashing in front of them. The closest he would ever come to it was a hope that it would happen. 

Steve remembers the rush of Peggy Carter. He knew nothing would ever, could ever be the same again. She completely changed the map, and there was no way of knowing where he would be in the future now. He didn’t even have anything to offer her - not in the way Bucky would have had. He couldn’t dance, he stumbled over his attempts at flirting, he had no money to take her out with. He wasn’t _half_ as pretty as she was. But she had a devious smile that rivaled Bucky’s, and she showed it to him often. 

It hurt his feelings, though he wouldn’t admit it, that he couldn’t stop thinking about Bucky, even when he had a very real, very interested, girl right in front of him. It didn’t hurt half as bad as what was to come, of course. Though Steve had no way of knowing that. 

Steve Rogers can remember a lot of things. He supposes that this is what it means when they say that your life flashes before your eyes. He knows he isn’t going to survive this fight. He supposes that he knew that going into it. He sees it all with a new sort of clarity, as though he can see with perfect vision. Most of it is still in black and white, but now some of his memories are in full color. He feels like he’s living it all for the first time. 

There was a night that Steve can’t stop thinking about. It happened maybe a week or two after he rescued Bucky. They had set up camp in the woods and Steve and Bucky had settled down far away from their little crew. 

“Do you ever feel like you’ve lost something you never had to start with?” Steve asks in a half whisper, careful not to wake the other Howling Commandos. He was misquoting Bucky, he knew, but the sentiment was the same. Bucky looked right through the darkness, and Steve felt as though Bucky was looking straight through him, right into the very darkest depths of his soul. 

He can remember that night, the night Bucky had said something like that. There wasn’t anything special about it, and nothing really happened. It was about a month before Bucky was to leave for basic. Maybe a little over a month before, he isn’t sure, anymore. A lot of the Before times and the After times have gotten jumbled in his head. He can’t remember the dates exactly, but he remembers the details. Like how you can’t remember the wording of a book but you can remember the story. 

“Do you ever feel like you miss something you never even had to begin with?” Bucky had asked him, his voice soft like an old t-shirt. It didn’t break the silence, it complimented it. His voice was quiet enough that if Steve wasn’t listening for it, he may have never heard it at all, may have thought it was background noise. But he was listening, always, to Bucky. 

Even now, in the plane, struggling and fighting with Schmidt, he’s listening for him. Even after he’s dead, it’s almost as though Steve can still hear Bucky. 

“I don’t know,” Steve had replied, so long ago, just as quiet, because he wasn’t quite sure he knew what Bucky was getting at, if anything. 

“It’s just this feeling I’ve got; like a memory of something that happened - except that it never happened and I can’t quite remember it.” 

“You’ve lost me there, Buck.” 

“It’s like a song your ma used to sing to you, but you don’t remember the words or the tune.” Steve considered this for a moment, and then nodded, waiting for Bucky to continue, but he didn’t. 

Later that night, when Steve was straddling the line between asleep and awake, he heard, as though from a distance, Bucky’s voice behind him. “I miss you like I know what it’s like to have you, Stevie. I miss you as though I’ve _got a right to_. And I feel, sometimes I feel like I know this time that we were happy like it really happened. As if it ever could.” His voice got smaller and tighter as Steve drifted further off in his strong arms. 

When he woke up, the bed was empty, his toes were cold. There was hot water on the stove, but Bucky was gone. And it was like an inkling of a dream, but he heard, he had thought he heard, Bucky whisper to him in the very last moments before he fell completely and utterly asleep, _this is what blue feels like_. 

He thinks he understands now. Now that he can see the colors, he thinks he knows what blue feels like. But to Steve, blue is nothing in comparison to white. He thinks Bucky would agree, were he here with him, that white is the worst. It’s the absence of color. It is the truest form of loss. It is cold and it is vacant as Steve’s hands reaching, ever reaching, after him. 

And then Schmidt is gone, just like that, destroyed by the very thing he had believed made him powerful. The Tesseract. And Steve doesn’t even feel anything of it. Not a single thing. He’s not sad for loss of life, he’s not happy that a great evil has been removed. Steve Rogers only just feels the hollowness in his heart, a gaping hole. He knows what he has to do. 

Bucky used to tell him stories. _God_ , he was always such a good storyteller. People always just supposed that since Steve was the artist out of the two of them, Bucky couldn’t be artistic. Yes, he was intelligent, calculating, and meticulous, but wasn’t that half of creativity? _Brilliance?_ Bucky was bright and he used to write these beautiful stories and letters for Steve, spelling out with careful words a world in which they could be happy. Every story he told was different, but it always ended the same: always with the two of them happily together, without fear or struggle. Steve supposes that Bucky told these stories more for himself than for Steve, as a way to ease the pain of Steve’s ultimate rejection of him. 

Steve wished only that he had gotten to tell him that that _wasn’t_ how it was. That it wasn’t that he didn’t want him, but that he didn’t want to put him at risk. In the end, there was nothing that he could have done to protect him. Bucky was on that bridge because of Steve and Steve couldn’t save him. Regardless of whether or not he had ever allowed him the love he had so desperately yearned to receive, he put Bucky in danger, and it was his fault Bucky was dead. 

Steve dreamed, in the days following Bucky’s death, that they were back at home, back curled up under threadbare blankets with only fire in their hearts. He dreamed of Bucky, of those soft noises he would make sometimes in the dead of night, of those sinful sounds he cried out when he thought that Steve was sleeping. He must have known that Steve was a light sleeper, he had to have known, but he did it anyways. Steve listened and never let on, never told him how it made him feel - flush all over and short of breath, like he had just tried to run, but good and warm in a way he had never felt before. 

But most of all, Steve dreamed of Bucky falling, slipping out of his loving hands. Most often, they were back in Bucky’s small, dark, cold apartment, clinging to each other with desperate and needy hands, but Steve’s thin fingers and weak arms were never enough to stop him from being dragged off by invisible forces. He would slip off the bed and under, down, down, down, while the wind whipped by Steve’s face, sweaty with exertion, and he was left naked and alone, same as he ever was. 

The decision to crash the plane was almost automatic. He surveyed the situation and immediately knew what he had to do. It wasn’t just for the world, it was for Bucky. It’s what he would have done. And it's for Steve, too, maybe. He doesn't want to live in a world without him. 

Steve had heard it said that one could only have up to three loves in their lifetime: their first love, their last love, and their true love. It’s said that you’re lucky if it’s all in one person, but that that doesn’t happen quite that often. And Steve always thought, growing up, that he was lucky. He had Bucky: his first love, his last love, his only love. He had Peggy, too, now though. He thought maybe she was his last love. Definitely not his first love. Maybe not his true love. But certainly his last love. 

He’s making plans with Peggy and he knows it doesn’t matter. Even if he survives, it doesn’t matter. Because when he closes his eyes, it’s not her face he sees. It’s Bucky’s, illuminated by the moonlight as he looked up at Steve all those years ago, whispering, _we could be happy, we could be happy, we could be happy_. 

It turns out that Bucky, after all, was Steve’s last love, his first love, his only.


	5. Chapter 5

_New York City, 2012  
_

Steve Rogers can’t be certain, but he is pretty damn sure that he’s in Hell. 

For a time there, he had stopped believing in it, stopped believing in a higher power. He knew that his mother, God rest her soul, would be rolling in her grave had she ever found out, God-fearing Catholic woman as she was. But that was a part of it, wasn’t it? Sarah Rogers’s untimely death. It was the catalyst, the first thing that made him think: _maybe we’re alone out here_. 

Of course the second thing was Bucky getting drafted. But maybe even before that: maybe just Bucky in general. Because if there was a God out there, and if he was merciful and good, why would Bucky and Steve be fated together only to be held apart? How could _God_ create someone so beautiful, drop him right in Steve’s lap and _say no?_

And if there was, in fact, a God, if any of this meant anything then how in the world would Bucky have been tortured, broken in ways that Steve couldn’t even fathom? He never talked about it, he tried to be brave, but Steve saw through the facade. Steve knew. Even though he’d saved him from the table, he was clearly too late. Nothing he could do would ever undo the bad that had already befallen Bucky. 

There’s no God in the mud and slick slide of blood, in the glazed eyes of the fallen. There’s no God in the fighting, in the killing. God isn’t there in the falling bombs, in the shrapnel, in the mass graves. He’s not on the battlefield and he’s not on the home front. If there ever was a God, he’s been dead a long time, now, and we sure as fuck killed him. 

Right about now, Steve is rethinking that. He must have been wrong. He must have died and gone straight to Hell. It’s nothing like what he pictured back when he was a kid and he still believed, there’s no fire, no brimstone. The devil isn’t laughing with his forked tongue and sharp teeth. Instead, he’s alone in a hospital room, sorta. It looks like one, though it’s a little off. But Steve must be in Hell. He died, he had to have died. He nosedived a plane. He had to be in Hell. 

But he isn’t dead. Miraculously, they will say, he survived. But the whole world spun on without him and he can’t quite find his footing. He never got to have that life with Peggy that Bucky wanted him to have. And he never got the chance to make it right with Bucky, never got to say goodbye. 

He can’t stop thinking of that night one December, he thinks it was nineteen thirty-three, though there’s no one to confirm this with. The only person who knows is dead now. For seventy years now. Steve wonders if anyone ever found his body, or if he was just buried in the snow. He wonders if he would be one of those perfect flash frozen fossils like there are in the museums or if he would be just bones and dust now. 

God, he misses him. 

December of thirty-three, yes, that had to have been it, Bucky was maybe a little drunk off alcohol he’d stolen from his folks and they were sitting on the couch in Steve’s apartment, listening to the radio. Steve’s mom was at work and it was cold and they were alone and everything was perfect. But then Steve had to go and ruin it when Bucky tried to kiss him. Because he was nervous and so he had said “not yet” and has regretted that every second of his life since then. “Not yet,” would infallibly become “not ever,” and Steve had not yet gotten over it, and was fairly certain that he wouldn’t. Not ever. 

Steve dreams, sometimes, when he can find it in himself to finally sleep. He doesn’t technically need a lot of sleep in order to function, one of the upsides of the super-serum. But that doesn’t stop him from being tired, right down into the very hollow of his bones, in the core of him. But no amount of sleep will ever leave him feeling refreshed. He’s got a routine now, he goes for runs and he goes to the library, museums. He doesn’t know how to be a person anymore. He supposes that maybe he hasn’t got any right to. Heck, he can’t even call Peggy Carter, his best girl. 

In his dreams, though they are few and far between, black and white like an old picture show, Bucky takes him dancing. Despite the greyscale, Steve knows the green of his slacks and that cap, slightly askew. He’s grinning, and he’s got one big hand on Steve’s skinny waist, and the other clenches his fingers in a gentle but firm grip. Bucky brings him around in a quick circle, stopping curt and Bucky’s chest is flush against his and his feet are moving so fast, and then he’s pulling back and twirling Steve and for half a second he can see the rest of the room and it’s everyone he’s ever even met and not a single one of them is paying them any mind. And Steve can feel he’s getting out of breath, just the rush of being so damn close to Bucky, and they’re twisting and stepping together, and then they’re close and they’re spinning and spinning and Steve isn’t even sure if it’s the world or just him that’s spinning but it doesn’t even matter. And Bucky pulls him up next to him and he’s kicking outwards and then spinning back and step step step stepping towards the back of the room, and honestly Steve doesn’t even know how he knows how to do it because he’s never been much of a dancer, no, that’s always been more of Bucky’s forte. But, somehow, he keeps up, and he never crashes, and he isn’t even focusing on what he’s doing, it’s just a blur, it’s just all the sweat on Bucky’s brow and his grin and those eyes and those hands in his hands and that’s all he’d ever even need. But the song is ending and seamlessly blending into a slower song and it’s all that Steve can do to cling to Bucky. His legs are made of water and Bucky just holds him up, rocking him from side to side. And he’s so close, so close that Steve can feel him smiling against his temple, so close that Steve can almost smell him. So close that if he could just gather the strength to stand by himself, he could tip his head up, get up on the tips of his toes and kiss those pouty lips. But Steve was never strong enough to stand on his own without Bucky. 

And in his dreams, Bucky brings him home, all the while laughing and joking and fast stepping and twirling Steve under the lampposts. There’s no one on the streets and Steve can see his face perfectly reflected in the puddles on street corners. Bucky lifts him over them with a flourish, and Steve swats at his arms but lands safely on the other side. Bucky carries him up to their apartment and it’s well lit and warm and it feels like home. And Bucky sets him down on the edge of the bed and takes off his shoes for him. He takes off his hat with his right hand, setting it gently on the bed beside Steve’s left hip, and he’s close, almost as close as when they were dancing, nearly chest to chest. He crawls onto the bed, slowly laying Steve down. And Steve wakes up. 

Even in his dreams, Steve never gets the chance to tell Bucky how he really feels. 

He wakes up and he’s more alone than he ever felt. And as he goes through the motions, he tries to tell himself the stories that Bucky would have told to make it better. But they don’t make it better, and they don’t fill the void. 

So he writes letters: tons of letters, sometimes, a few a day; sometimes, they’re quick, jots of ideas; and sometimes, fleshed out, pages long; always, to Bucky. It helps, in some small way. He keeps them in a drawer in his kitchen, but it’s getting full now. 

_The future isn’t all bad. There’s a lot of things about it you’d like, I think. It’s a lot nicer in many respects. I saw two men holding hands, and no one even gave them a second glance. It made my own hands feel so empty, as though I ever had your hands in mine. They also were both wearing these obscenely tight jeans - I think you’d like that, too. Even if you didn’t, I’d’ve liked to have seen you in them. Things are easier now - it’s all so convenient and quick, it’s like magic._

_I don’t like being here without you, but it’s getting better, slight as it might be. I’ve made some friends. Natasha, you’d like her. She’s so clever and quick. And Howard Stark’s son - Tony. Would you believe that? Howard, of all people, having a son. Peggy’s still around, but Howard’s gone. I’m sure you knew that though. I’m sure the two of you are down there together, waiting for the rest of us to get with the program. It hurts to say, but I’ve been thinking lately that my abstinence from you wasn’t enough to save us. I think that we’ve both done things in the war that are irreparable, and if there is a heaven, well, Buck, it would have been in your eyes and I’m never gonna see it._

_I think, in those sleepless hours, late at night, that maybe it was always to be this way: I think you knew that. I don’t think you ever even meant to come home. I was so intent on saving your soul that I couldn’t even see the black marks that were already forming. You can’t scrub that clean. And even if you could, I couldn’t ask you to. I wouldn’t ever want you to change._

_Though, I suppose, now you never will._


End file.
